


I'm Going to hell for this One.

by Lestradesexwife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Reunions, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Sherlock Mini-Bang. Contains mild spoilers for series three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Going to hell for this One.

Greg arrives just in time to prevent the second round of violence.

 

“Just the two of us? That’s a laugh.” John’s fists strain against his sides, chest pressing against Greg. “I’m only your audience, find someone else to... I’ve seen your magic trick.” John watches as the arrow of his words strike home. Warmth blossoms in his chest at the flash of pain on Sherlock’s carefully controlled face.

 

“My _trick,_ as you say, saved Mrs. Hudson, and the Detective Inspector. They would have put a bullet in your brain, John, but for my _tricks_.” Brows drawn together, Sherlock wipes at the cut on his lip. 

 

_Cheekbones and teeth._

 

“You’ve no idea do you?” John’s anger drains from him, faster and deeper than he thought possible, replaced by the cold. The dead feeling of shock that hadn’t left him since...

 

John is sure the heavy weight of Greg’s arms holding him back is meant to be comforting, but suddenly he can’t breathe and he breaks his gaze from Sherlock. “Did you know?” Greg’s jaw is tight and he looks like he is holding John back against his will. “Tell me that you didn’t know about this.”

 

“ _John_.” The crack in Greg’s voice is almost all sympathy. “I swear I didn’t know until just now. I was coming to find you. I _swear..._ I didn’t know.”

 

John relaxes minutely and only then does he feel the way Greg’s fingers are digging into his biceps, as though Greg is the one drowning. “I’m leaving. I’m going to walk out of here and I don’t want to even... no creepy cars or CCTV.”

 

“John. If you will just _listen._ I had to...”

 

Greg melts away, all resistance fading in the face of John’s renewed anger. “I _listened to you._ You bloody well made me your _note_ remember? You lied to me. No, actually you told me the truth, you _are_ a fake.” John doesn’t put his hands on Sherlock, but Sherlock rocks back on his heels at the accusation. “I’d... finally. I’d finally sorted it out... that I couldn’t have stopped you. And here you stand. Everything I’ve been through... it was all a lie.”

 

John can see the words forming, can see the brilliant deduction that would justify everything Sherlock has put him through and the demand that John accept it. “No. Sherlock. No. Not anymore.”

John walks past him and heads for the exit, carefully outside of Sherlock’s reach. He’s calm, very nearly collected and he makes it out the door and onto the pavement to hail a cab before his stomach churns. John gulps cool damp night air and tries to ignore the pain in his shoulder, and the way his leg wants to give out under him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“John! John, wait!” Greg strides out of the restaurant, but doesn’t try to actually catch or hold John. “John I swear I didn’t know. Please. Please I... _fucking hell_!” Greg turns away, and John thinks maybe he is going to go back to Sherlock. When he turns back Greg’s eyes are sad, defeated. “I swear I didn’t know. He pickpocketed me this morning... and I should have called you then, but I wasn’t sure until now... I didn’t see him. My warrant card was there, and then there was a flashdrive in its place. Evidence, footage of Moriarty taking out contracts on us. We found them, _Jesus..._ John... I’ve worked with Cartwright for years. He confessed. Told Dimmock all about it. He’d’ve put a bullet in my head if Sherlock hadn’t jumped.” Greg teeters, and John reaches out, catches his elbow.

 

The cab that pulls up feels like rescue. “C’mon. When did you eat last?” The niggling certainty that Sherlock is going to follow them, that he’s going to swirl out of the restaurant and catch John up in his gravity moves John to pull Greg into the cab with him. They settle together into the back seat, John scans the cabbie, Sherlock’s been back five minutes but that is apparently long enough to trigger John’s old habits. They sit in silence as the driver maneuvers them through London, any conversations they might have will keep until they are alone again.

 

John’s flat, when he flicks on the lights and moves aside for Greg, is small, without the clutter and madness that characterized 221B. He’s got a kitchen, and a door between the main room and the bedroom. “Make yourself at home.” He gestures at the slightly ragged sofa. 

 

“Step up from mine, mate.” Greg smiles as he drops his coat over the arm of John’s single desk chair. 

 

“I’ve tea and whiskey in. What’s your poison?” 

 

“Tea, I think. For a start.” Greg scrubs his hands over his face and heads for the couch. 

 

John decides to pretend this is something they have been doing all along. That this isn’t the first time they’ve seen each other since... god, John can’t even remember, it has been years anyway. “I think the milk is off.”

 

Greg laughs, a deep chuckle in his throat. “I’ve given up buying it, I’m never home long enough to drink it anyway. Black’s fine.”

 

Greg doesn’t crowd John, plants himself on the second hand sofa and waits until John comes out of the kitchenette carrying two mugs. 

 

Greg takes the mug and sighs into the tea. “I don’t want to sound like... I’m not trying to defend him. Jesus... there’s nothing... there’s an entirely new level of... even for him.” Greg clears his throat and starts again. “He _says_ he was on the run the whole time. He thought he could catch them. Bring down the web, and with Moriarty dead it was supposed to be easy.”

 

John inhales sharply around a sip of tea, sputtering as he leans forward to put the mug down. “Moriarty’s dead?”

 

“Sorry, yeah he offed himself on the roof before...” Greg’s hands knit together, folding in on himself. “Sherlock had to jump because the bastard took any call back codes he might have had to hell with him.”

 

John feels like he’s shaking apart, but when he lifts the mug again his hand is steady. He sips his tea, lets the feeling of hot liquid melt some the the cold that has gathered in his stomach. 

 

“He thought he’d find the web and tear it all down, be back before the end of the year. Only, well there wasn’t a web. More like spokes on a wheel. Nothing overlapped, it all lead back to Moriarty, but nothing crossed over. Everyone he found only ever had contact with Richard Brook. So that only pointed back at Sherlock. He was trapped and everyone of them had orders to kill us if he showed his face in public. So he ran, gathered as much evidence as he could until he had them all. Three _hundred_ arrests today, in six countries.” Greg stops speaking and stares into his tea, holding the mug tight enough that John worries it will shatter in his hands. “I doubted him, John. I started all this.”

 

John drains his tea and moves to the cupboard to pull down the whiskey bottle he’s stashed up there for nights when he dreams. He comes back to the sofa and collapses onto it next to Greg. “No. No, you really didn’t.” John pours himself a generous two and a half fingers and tilts the bottle at Greg. Greg takes it but sets it back down on the table.

 

John laughs, a defeated harsh sound and takes a sip of his whiskey. “I’ve been through every level of blame, I even blamed Stamford for knowing Sherlock and introducing us in the first place. He’d have died with the cabbie, he’d have died a thousand times without us. He died once but it was his decision. He chose the path and he walked down it. I just can’t walk it with him anymore. You said when we first met that he might be a great man. He is, but I’m really not.”

 

Greg snorts, ready to come to John’s defense, but John tilts his mug.

 

“If I was any good at all I’d be able to forgive him.” John drains the mug and reaches for the bottle. Greg watches as John pours and he drains the last of his tea, holding out the mug for John to refill.

 

“I guess we are both of us bad men then.”

 


End file.
